by L.J. Shen
“I think we still have kiddie books in the attic if he needs a goodnight story.”
I elbow his ribs lightly and roll my eyes. “I hate you.”
“Your pussy didn’t seem to get the memo.” He moves over to his side of the bed and pushes his nightstand drawer open to produce a joint. I motion him with my hand to go outside to the patio, and he nods solemnly. I don’t need Vaughn to see it and get any ideas. The women of the HotHole crew have successfully managed to shelter the kids from the fact that their fathers are perpetual stoners thus far. As far as my knowledge goes, none of them are smokers, thank God.
I pad barefoot to Vaughn’s room down the hall in my fresh nightgown—a modest one at that—and knock before I open the door.
“Come in.”
He sits on his bed, his back against the bedpost, worrying his lip and shooting a dart straight to the center of the board in front of his bed. He is wearing his usual outfit of a holey shirt—white, this time—and black skinny jeans that are at least two years old and have somehow become both tight and loose. Even I, as his mom, have to admit that he’s got the rebellious edge down to an art. He dresses simply, but his look has character, personality, and flavor. Like a del Toro movie. You can recognize Vaughn without knowing that it’s him, even from a few dozen yards.
I take a seat at the edge of his bed, cupping his bent knee. He focuses his gaze on me, a frown crossing his face.
“Where were you? It’s two a.m.,” I say. I can’t really fault him for going out on a Friday night. He is a teenager, after all. But I sure as hell can fault him for coming back an hour later than he should have.
“Just a party.” He shrugs.
“Daria’s?” Daria Followhill throws a party every other weekend, something my sister, Rosie, and I give Mel—Daria’s mother—a lot of crap about. Daria is notoriously snotty, something Jaime and Mel have a hard time coming to terms with. I honestly feel that at this point, my good friends have lost control of their daughter and their only expectation of her is to not fall pregnant or get addicted to meth before the school year ends. Daria is busier strategizing ruining other attractive girls’ lives than college admissions. In fact, she made it clear to Mel and Jaime that college was not on her agenda.
“Yup,” Vaughn says, popping the P with another unintentional eye roll.
“Who were you planning to see there?” It wasn’t Daria, that’s for sure. And Daria would die before voluntarily inviting Luna anywhere. Daria grew up thinking Luna stole some of her precious limelight, especially since the boys have always been fond of her. So that is odd, considering Vaughn and Knight’s crew take Luna with them everywhere.
Vaughn straightens his legs and leans forward, giving me rare eye contact. He licks his lips, which tells me that he is nervous, and that makes me nervous.
“Daria’s in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the hit. Daria has always had her father’s rebellious streak and determination. Combined with her mother’s sarcasm and dancer genes, she quickly became an unstoppable force.
Prettiest.
Most talented.
And, therefore, not the nicest.
“I don’t wanna rat her out, so you need to promise not to tell anyone. Not even Dad.” He flings a warning finger toward me, and I take a second to think about it before offering him a silent nod. My heart beats faster. Vaughn is not a snitch. If he is coming to me with this, it means that he is worried, and Vaughn is never worried. He screams nonchalance. Well, actually, he utters it quietly, with a patronizing smirk.
“Words, Mom.”
“I promise.”
“Daria’s having an affair.”
I stare at him, dumbfounded, and blink a few times before a small smile expands on my face. “You mean, she has a boyfriend?”
My son stares at me like I’m a complete idiot. “No, Mom. Affair.”
“Define affair.”
“With Principal Prichard. That defined enough for you?”
My heart is lodged in my throat, and I am blinking away what must be tears. Daria just turned eighteen. Principal Prichard is not old, but he is almost my age. He is old for her. Thirty-six, to be exact.
She is a child.
I bathed her and cut her food into miniscule pieces, for Lord’s sake.
I stay silent for the longest time, not entirely sure what to tell Vaughn.
“Thanks for the input. Anyway.” He pokes me with his socked toes, groaning. “I’m covering for her scrawny ass as much as I can, but honestly, it’s getting a little out of control and I don’t need this bullshit, you know? We’re about to start the second semester and I’m tired of watching for her shit and making up lies.”
“Wait, how does it have anything to do with Knight? You said he was the one you are mad at this afternoon.”
“Oh.” He scratches his chin, shrugging. “We flipped a coin. Knight lost. He was supposed to say something to his parents before shit hit the fan, but of course he bailed, because he is messing around with Cadence, Daria’s best friend.”
It’s not what Knight is doing; it’s who he is doing.
That makes sense now.
“How many people know about Daria and her affair?” I want to throw up at how twisted and ironic this whole thing is. Daria’s parents had a forbidden teacher and student affair. She is well aware of that, and I wonder if it’s her way to try to rile them up.
Vaughn shrugs. “Not many. Enough to get Daria all freaked out, but not enough to make her stop. He…” My son looks sideways, shaking his head on a sigh, like this is ridiculous, even to him. “Mom, he buys her crazy shit. I don’t know how he affords that kind of crap on his salary.”
“Language.”
“Honestly, after everything I told you about how other kids are behaving, you should award me with a medal, not worry about my profanity.”
“I can do both.” I let loose a tired smile, but then I remember how complicated the situation is. I love Daria. I love her like a family member, and she is getting drawn into something very dangerous.
I look down at my hands. They’re shaking.
I look up to my son. His eyes are searching mine.
Then I hear the words I shouldn’t be hearing, from a person who shouldn’t be in this room.
It’s my husband, and he is standing at the door to Vaughn’s room, one arm propped over the doorframe. “Drama in Todos Santos, who would have thought?”
I put my hand over Vaughn’s, and he shoots a knowing glance at his dad.
“Guess you can call us All Saints’ Sinners.”
All Saints’ Sinners is a YA spin-off series to the Sinners of Saint.
The first book in the series, Pretty Reckless, is due to come out early 2019.
Before you go:
Make sure you sign-up to my newsletter for one free e-book by me and a monthly free e-book by a bestselling author:
Join my reading group, The Sassy Sparrows, for exclusive teasers, excerpts and giveaways
Facebook
Website: www.authorljshen.com
Instagram
Tyed
Sparrow
Blood to Dust
Vicious (Sinners of Saint #1)
Defy (Sinners of Saint #0.5)
Ruckus (Sinners of Saint #2)
Scandalous (Sinners of Saint #3)
Midnight Blue
Coming soon: Bane (Sinners of Saint Standalone Spinoff)
Before you go: check out the first chapter of my latest novel, Midnight Blue.
Alex Winslow in another meltdown: arrested for DUI and possession of cocaine.
By Beth Stevenson, The Daily Gossip
British singer Alex Winslow was arrested again Tuesday night for driving under the influence and for possession of cocaine. The twenty-seven-year-old singer had been released from California’s Lost Hill Sheriff’s Station after a night in jail. A night during which, it is alleged, he swung on the bars of his cell and wrote t
he lyrics to his song “Wild Heaven” on the walls using a blue Sharpie given to him by a smitten station employee (a Sharpie he later used to sign her breasts).
As well as getting caught with three grams of cocaine in the glove compartment of his azure vintage Cadillac, the heartthrob is also accused of trying to seduce his way out of trouble when he got pulled over in the early hours on the Pacific Coast Highway cradling a nearly-empty bottle of whiskey.
The twelve-time Grammy winner allegedly unleashed his famous, one-hundred-million-dollar smile at the officer on the scene, a forty-three-year-old mother of three, saying, “You really are f***** arresting, love, but I reckon I’ll be the one doing the cuffing tonight.”
The “Man Meets Moon” singer infamously got arrested eight weeks ago for punching Steven Delton, owner of the website Simply Steven, and for stealing a Grammy statuette. Winslow stormed onto the stage at the Grammys mid-speech when fellow British singer William Bushell received the Best Album award, plucked the statue from Bushell’s hand, lit a cigarette, and launched into a rant:
“Are you having a laugh? Raise your hands if you actually voted for this wanker without getting bribed with a complimentary handjob. Come on. Come. The. Fuck. On. His whole album sounds like background music at McDonald’s. No offense. To McDonald’s, not to Bushell. There wasn’t even one creative track in the entire album. In fact, if creativity met this bloke in a dark alley, it would run the other way, screaming bloody murder. I’m taking this home. Doesn’t feel too good when someone steals what’s yours, eh, mate? Well, boo-fucking-hoo. It’s called life, and it’s a lesson you taught me.”
Previously close friends and former London roommates, Bushell and Winslow had a falling out two years ago over model/socialite sensation, Fallon Lankford, and have been labeled enemies since. Both Brits slammed reports concerning bad blood between them. It has been alleged that Winslow’s latest album, Cock My Suck—which peaked at number nine on Billboard and disappeared from the charts soon after, the worst in his career—had driven him into the arms of alcohol and cocaine.
Shortly after word got out of Winslow’s arrest, Simply Steven ran an article titled, “Alex Winslow: The End of an Era.” It is believed that Mr. Delton is now looking to sue Winslow, after the latter assaulted him with a jab to the face when asked about Fallon Lankford’s new love interest, Will Bushell.
Within hours of his second release, Winslow offered an apology through his long-time agent, Jenna Holden:
“Alex Winslow is deeply sorry for doing a number of things that were very wrong and for which he is ashamed. He would like to apologize to the officer who arrested him, stretching the apology to her husband, children, and the local church in which she volunteers. Winslow acknowledges his out-of-control behavior can no longer be overlooked, and for the sake of his loved ones, his fans, and himself, has decided to check himself into a rehabilitation facility in the state of Nevada. We kindly ask you to respect his privacy as he fights this very personal battle against his demons.”
Winslow’s former publicist, Benedict Cowen, who parted ways with the singer days after his Grammy meltdown, was not available for comment.
Comments (1,937)
xxLaurenxx
He is off-the-rails crazy. Also: off-the-rails hot.
Pixie_girl
Dude, McDonald’s background music? Richhhh. Winslow’s last album was so bad my ears bled for two weeks after listening to it.
Cody1984
#LeaveAlexAlone
(just kidding, he’ll probably shove a finger into an outlet or something if we don’t keep an eye on him.)
James2938
Guy’s a sociopath. You can very clearly see it in his art.
BellaChikaYass
I echo that thought…but I’d still do him. ;)
xxLaurenxx
Me too! Lol
Pixie_girl
Sadly, me three.
James2938
Good, because he’s not the kind
Of guy who can offer you more
than a quickie. He is bad news.
LITERALLY.
Six months later.
Tap. Tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
The soles of my shoes slapped against the granite floor like a persistent canary. I had to dig my fingernails into my thighs to make my legs stop bouncing to the rhythm of my restless, foolish heart.
Shut up, heart.
Chill out, heart.
Stop fussing, heart.
There was no need to panic. Not even a little. Not even at all.
I was going to get the job.
I elevated my head, flashing the woman sitting across from me my biggest, most enthusiastic smile.
“When we advertised the job for a PA position, we kind of, sort of, what’s the word I’m looking for…? Lied.” Slamming her chrome MacBook shut, she splayed her bony, manicured fingers on top of it, showcasing a ring that must’ve cost enough to buy the better half of my up-and-coming neighborhood.
My throat bobbed, and I smoothed down my tattered pencil skirt. Actually, it wasn’t even mine. It was Natasha’s, my brother’s wife, and two sizes too large at the waist. I only ever got called back from food chain restaurants that didn’t require a suit, so I’d had to improvise. I tucked my knotted ankles under my chair, sparing my interviewer my silver Oxford shoes, a hint of my personality I’d forgotten to disguise.
Everything in the woman’s office screamed excess. Her desk, white and sleek; the seats made of alabaster leather; and the bronze chandelier dripping down between us like liquid gold. The Hollywood Sign poured from her floor-to-ceiling window in all its promising, beautiful, broken promises glory. So close you could see the dirt clinging to the white letters. Her workplace was the size of a ballroom. There wasn’t a drop of color or personality in this office, and not by accident.
Jenna Holden. Powerhouse agent to the biggest Hollywood stars. Owner of JHE Group. She didn’t have time to get personal. Least of all with the likes of me.
“You’re not looking for a PA?” The forced smile on my face crumbled. I needed this job like Mark Wahlberg needed to show his real junk in Boogie Nights. Really, really bad. Case in point: I was living with my brother, his wife, and kid, and as much as they loved me, I’m sure they loved not having to share their one-bedroom apartment with a twenty-one-year-old avant-garde slob slightly more. My only source of transportation was my bicycle, which in L.A. was the equivalent of getting from A to Z on a dead turtle’s back.
“I’m looking for…something.” Jenna tipped her chin down, bowing a thinly plucked eyebrow. “And it does involve some assisting.”
My patience was hanging by a thread, ready to jump ship. I was hungry, thirsty, and desperate for the job. Any job. Summer had kicked my ass, and all the blue-collar positions had been filled by acne-ridden teenagers. This was the third time I’d come into JHE for this vague job this month. First, I’d gone through the HR girl who’d left me waiting for forty minutes because her pedicure appointment ran late. Then, Jenna’s personal assistant had grilled me like I was fresh back from an ISIS training camp. Finally, I’d met with the mega agent herself, and now she was telling me I’d been misled this whole time?
“Tell me, Indigo, how carefully did you read the job description?” She sat back in her chair and laced her fingers together. She wore a crisp, buttoned shirt tucked into black velvet pants, and a smug smile. Her champagne-blonde hair was pulled into a painful looking bun, and my skull burned just from looking at the way her skin pulled around her hairline.
“Careful enough to repeat it by heart.”
“Is that so? In that case, please do.”
My nostrils flared. I decided to humor her one last time before collecting my bag and remainder of self-esteem and walking away.
“PA needed: resilient, responsible, patient, and thick-skinned. Non-drinker, NO DRUGS, with a flair for arts and life. If you’re twirling on the sidelines of mainstream, have great attention for detail, and don’t mind long ho
urs and endless nights, we’re looking for you. *NDA needed, criminal record will be checked.”
I pushed a copy of my job application, tapping it with my finger. “This is me. Sans the twirling part. I’m prone to migraines. Now, can you tell me why I’m here?”
“What I’m looking for is a savior. A nanny. A friend. You’re the closest thing to perfect I’ve found, but frankly, this whole thing is going to be a lot like an organ transplant. We won’t know if you’re a match until we put you two together.”
I blinked, studying her like she was a mythological creature. If this was a joke, I’d officially lost my sense of humor.
She stood up and began to pace, her arms folded behind her back. “I have a client. No, not a client. The client. One of the hottest names in the industry this decade. He got himself into hot water recently and now he needs a big bucket of ice to cool his name off. Drugs, women, ego the size of China—you name it, he’s suffering from it. Your job is not to book flights and make coffee. He’s got an arsenal of people doing that for him. But you will be there when he goes on tour. You’ll cater to his emotional needs. You’ll make sure he doesn’t snort cocaine backstage, or stay out late, or miss a show. You’ll be there to grab his hand and pull him away when he gets into an argument with a journalist or a paparazzo. Your job, in short, is to keep him healthy and alive for three months. Think you’re up for the challenge?”
Her words were so sincere and sharp, they sank into my skin like teeth.
A savior. A nanny. A friend.
“That’s…a lot of responsibility. Sounds like that someone is in big trouble.”
“Trouble is his middle name, a part of his charm, and the reason why I have a Xanax tab in my purse at all times.” She cracked a bitter smile.